The Years

The long years, I have lived
seem to be shorter than the years
I have to live.

Those years, now a past
I had my hands full,
much at home, but tied up.

These years, while I live
nothing much of a work
but, I run from one end to the other.

It is to me very odd.
I sense an insensible feel
makes me dull and dreary.

I pull on with a weariness
greatly out of the world
keeping myself to myself.

A sensation deliberate surfaces
wish to withdraw fully from all
like to stay in a place far away.

Afraid, I would miss my lovely home
Alas! it is the only string that holds,
be it how long I do not know.